Where The Heart Is
by Indigo2831
Summary: Set any time between seasons 8-10. The bunker is just cold stone and cobwebbed dungeons, but it was theirs. This is literally the fluffiest thing I've ever written.


I've been writing like crazy lately. This is by far the fluffiest thing I've ever written, a palate cleanser after 'Slow Dancing In A Burning Room.' Let me know what you think! Oh, I'm also on Tumblr now, follow me: indigo2831.

* * *

 **Where The Heart Is**

Like a tree growing in gnarling twists towards the sunlight or stray dogs that learned to navigate cities to stay warm and fed, nature had a way of adapting. And the Winchesters were no different.

On Saturday, Sam rose, dressed, and stripped his bed. He stopped by Dean's room on the way to the bunker's utilitarian laundry room, and was startled when Dean whipped the door open and a sleep-warm ball of cotton hit him in the face. Sam sputtered into the sheets, cringing. "GROSS, DEAN! I know what you do on these things. Holy water won't even kill those germs!" He stuffed them in the laundry basket, grimacing.

Dean tossed him a rusty, groggy laugh as he shuffled to the kitchen to make coffee.

By the time he finished hanging the sheets to dry on lines strung from the high railings in the war room, Dean was dressed and starving. "It's All-You-Can-Eat Rib Day at Crossbones, Sammy. C'mon. You promised."

Sam snagged the Impala's keys. "I've been ready for two hours. And I'm drivin'."

Dean flew after him. "Wait 'til they see your big ass walk through the doors again. I don't think that special's gonna last much longer now that we're in town."

-SPN-

Dean pedaled the shopping cart like a skateboard before he hopped on and glided across the empty mid-day parking lot. Sam pretended not to know him as he headed into the market, coupons in hand. He still limped from a swollen knee—a parting gift from their last hunt—but tried to disguise it as much as he could. A man of his height wearing thrift-store flannel was only rewarded with strange looks and clutched purses in the fancier part of town, but they sold organic vegetables and hormone, free-range meats, and their Tuesday specials were too good to pass up.

Halfway into his shopping, a winded Dean fell in halting step with Sam bagged some organic apples. He cocked his head to whisper. "If you see a lady with one of those ugly ass knitting bag purses, I'm using you as a human shield. I was racin' her kid in the parking lot, and she yelled at me."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please tell me you didn't break him."

" _Mia's_ a beast in cart-racing. But her uptight mom gave me the look like I should have an appointment with Chris Hansen and a pitcher of iced tea."

"I can't take you anywhere!" Sam snapped under his breath as they walked by the fridge filled with artisan beers.

Dean's eyes glazed and he drifted towards the beers like a brains-rapt zombie. Sam snagged the back of his collar. "You're grounded. No beer."

His brother shot him a glare reserved for demons. "Fine, but you can't ban me from free samples." He stomped off and grabbed a handful of cubed bread from the plastic tasting bins before stomping to the bakery department.

Sam continued his shopping, and wincing at the prices. If he wasn't so intent on saving the world, Sam would dedicate his life to making decent food affordable for everyone. Luckily, approaching spring had slashed the stores prices on rock salt. Sam stowed four large bags in his cart, and knew he'd be spending the evening making salt rounds and stowing salt in their weapons bags and the sewing satchels into the folds of their jackets since he wasn't up for much else.

A hand, tipped with a rhinestone studded nails, folded gently over his arm. Sam looked up and instantly smiled as he recognized Joss, a waitress at Crossbones Pub. "Sam? I thought that was you. Hi!"

"Hey!" Joss was the type of woman that stunned him to fumbling nervousness he thought he'd overcome in college, beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with the alluring brown of her skin or the gleam in her dark eyes. He never really liked ribs, but he'd packed them away for five Saturdays in a row simply to make small talk with her under the red and purple gleam of the bars neon lights. "Small world, huh?"

"You bet. It's good to see you. I was thinkin' I'd have to wait until Saturday again."

"Uh…well. Nope. Here I am." It was weird to bump into someone he knew, and Sam idly wished he had more weapons on him than just a ceramic knife.

Joss glanced around. "Are you here with...your girlfriend?"

"No!" Sam huffed. "She's dead…I mean…" Joss's eyes widened in shock. Sam drew in a deep breath. "I don't have a girlfriend. Dean's around here somewhere, destroying something probably."

"That sounds like Dean," Joss clutched her purse tighter, and Sam knew from her averted eyes that he'd freaked her out.

Connections were tricky and dangerous, Sam reminded himself. And he used his own awkwardness as a way out. "Well, it was awesome to see you again. I gotta finish up and head…t-to work. Have a great day."

"Oh, okay," Joss bit her lip, shoulders dropping. She rushed to speak as she walked away. "A bunch of us are having a movie night at Quon Fields on Friday. You should come."

Dean swooped in with a box of cookies and a bag of donuts.

"Dean, you should come too. They play old horror movies and everyone brings booze and food to share."

"Sounds dope. Sam and I will be there."

She smiled, and for a second, there was no ground beneath Sam's feet. Joss left to finish her shopping, and Dean nudged Sam with an elbow. "But she likes horror films, Sammy. Try to make this one work. I want nieces to spoil."

Sam cuffed him on the back of the head.

-SPN-

Everything vibrated at a strange, disjointed rate that was making his skin crawl and burn. The growl of the Impala telegraphed a little comfort, but the rocking of the car and the sickening smear of too-bright headlights made him violently nauseous. "Hang on, Sammy...almost there."

Sam gouged the heels of his hands into his eyes, and groaning out his misery, folding over his knees. He tried to tell himself it was just the witch's spell, that the agitation and the pain and the queasiness wouldn't last forever. But the water from the gas station bathroom hadn't done anything, so maybe it would.

He tried not to vomit again as Dean hauled him out of the car and through a dizzying labyrinth of hallways. Sam was a sweat-soaked, feverish mess, but his head had cleared enough that he knew to at least try to keep his feet under him. Once they cleared the small flights of stairs, Dean snagged a desk chair, pushed Sam into it and rolled him the rest of the way to the locker room style bathroom while he tried not to scream. God, did it _hurt._

Gettin' too old for this, Sammy," Dean puffed.

Just when he had forgotten what it was, relief came in the form of hot water from the bunker's pristine shower room. Dean cranked on four nozzles, angled them all at his little brother, and then produced a knife to shear off his shirts.

Sam's magic-addled brain could remember what happened now: a simpering smile of a gray-eyed witch as she blew powder into Sam's eyes and mouth when he tried to escape her lair with the little girl she'd kidnapped for parts.

He leaned back in the chair and canted his face into the stream, holding his breath as the holy water washed him clean. Sam and Dean had spent days routing around the bunker to find and bless the water source before scrubbing the entire expanse of title until it sparkled like Aspen powder.

The fever wasn't roasting him alive anymore, and there was space in his head to hold more than ragged screams and panic. He let Dean scrub his encrusted hair with holy water and shampoo only stopping the harsh scrubbing when he turned away to puke. Dean was red-eyed and snorking too, and had probably gotten the wicked powder all over him when he tried to help Sam. He forced himself to swayingly stand, and pushed Dean beneath one of the other showerheads. "You...too," Sam jittered out, still trembling.

And Dean immediately turned his face into the stream, still in his soddened clothes.

He was still hunched with sickness when Dean tucked him into bed, but there was something about his fresh-smelling sheets and a bit a gun powder, the expected squeak of his too-short bed, and the comfort of having his things around him helped him fall into a dreamless sleep.

-SPN-

Laughter pulled Sam from sleep. He laid mushed into the mattress, blinking as he took stock of his body: achy, heavy-limbed, bladder burstingly full. As he all put peeled himself out of a deep mattress divot that spoke of a long, healing sleep, he heard the laughter again, hushed this time in deference to the stone walls and the slumbering inhabitant. Clenched a teeth against a groan, Sam shuffled to the bathroom, leaning on walls to catch his breath. The bunker was many things, but small or plush were either of them.

He was a mess, all frizzy-haired, stinking breath and gritty eyes. It took another bout of steaming water and some serious time with the razor and toothbrush before he neared the realm of presentability. He gingerly folded himself into some sweats and ventured back down the hallway. The voices came from the satellite kitchen where Dean, Jody, and Castiel sat talking. Dean face blew open with relief when he saw Sam. "'Bout time you woke up."

Jody rushed over to fuss over him, rubbing his back as she guided him over to the table, and Castiel offered additional healing, if needed. He should've been offended or demeaned by their concern, but it just resonated like love. He felt feather-light and filled with helium, like if he wasn't weighted down by heavy sweats, he'd float up to the ceiling. "How long's it been?"

"Nearly two days. Witch whammied you so badly Jody came to check in." Dean said as he tinkered with something at the stove.

Sam fuzzily remembered the date. "I missed our call, didn't I?"

Jody shrugged. "You had a damn good reason."

It just now dawned on Sam that Dean was wearing an actual apron, blue with a frilly tie in the back. And there were flowers on the table. _Dean was entertaining._ "You up for real food or…"

"God, yes," Sam sighed.

A few minutes later, a plate of bacon, eggs and supple biscuits dripping with butter and jam was placed in front of him, and Sam nearly cried with happiness. He snagged Dean's coffee and focused on not inhaling his brother regaled their guests with the saga of Sammy and The Bitch Witch. When Jody started talking about her new boyfriend, a hunter Sam and Dean fully intended on vetting the first second they could, he was stricken by something more than a full belly. It was the table full of friends—a widowed cop, a wayward angel, a hell-haunted older brother.

When Sam wasn't looking, they had forged a family, created a home. They were no longer two rogue hunters or rudderless orphans, but a part of a unit of comfort and love and familiarity. A wave of love and gratitude eradicated that last dregs of the witch's curse, and he joined in the trashtalk and fun. Whatever hell threw at them tomorrow, Sam didn't care.

It had taken thirty-two years, but he was finally home.

 _Fin_


End file.
